


Haven

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: When Gladio is injured in a hunt, it's Noct who gets to take care of him. It wouldn't be an issue, if they weren't angry with each other.





	Haven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zacklover24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacklover24/gifts).



There was never a time when Noctis didn’t expect Gladiolus to be there, at his back, at his side. He was always within reach, a rush of shield and strength and sword as big as Noctis was tall. Usually shoving him out of harm’s way with the harsh reminder to watch his back, or stick close to Ignis, or to just stay within sight. He was always a few paces behind, watching the ground ahead as Noct rushed off with Prompto or Ignis, ready to grab him when he started to stumble on the uneven ground. There was always that presence on the battlefield— with praise when he struck well, when he proved that their years of training was worth it— with a reminder to watch his blind spot. He had always anticipated being caught by Gladio— falling back against the larger man when he was staggered. There was never a time when Noctis was thrown off his feet to land in the trampled dirt and grass and mud, right next to Gladio’s unmoving body. 

It had just been a hunt. Not an infiltration of a Nifhleim base, not a disruption of Niflheim supplies or blockades. It wasn’t even meant to be a dangerous hunt. They had argued about it— like they argued about everything— before leaving Lestallum. 

There were hunts that were closer to the city, closer to the comforts of a motel. There were errands for the vendors in the marketplace if they needed food, for the citizens willing to shelter them or turn a blind eye as the bounty on Noctis grew. There were the outposts and the towns, even running back to Hammerhead to see if there was any way to scrounge up cash or parts for Cid or Cindy while they waited for the boat at Caem to be ready. There were the farms, and the ranch, the small communities claimed by the hunters— the surviving Crownsguard working under Cor and reporting to Dave. There were plenty of hunts and jobs that didn’t take them out to the middle of nowhere for a few days. Noctis had been wholly against the idea of the trip out under the radar. 

“We need to lay low,” was all Gladio had said as he threw what little they still had into bags at the motel. He had taken the hunt over breakfast, picking up the information from the tipster before anyone else could say anything, before even Ignis could weigh in. “Pack up and let’s get moving.”

It was Prompto who complained about the camping, who begged the concession of at least a couple of nights in a caravan by the ranch or at the old house in Caem. Noctis had only just agreed. He had only just suggested that they stick close to where they knew; the outposts, the Cape, the Vesperpool if they needed someplace the Nifs preferred not to go. Where they didn’t need to camp every night, where they could take the trip back to civilisation in a couple of hours rather than a day. 

He hadn’t meant to sound as harsh as he did. He didn’t mean to rile up Gladio as he had (maybe a little). But they were always going to butt heads when they were stressed. 

“Can’t we at least do something fun?”

“You’re living with a bounty on you, highness; quit sulking and get your ass in gear.”

“Jeez, who died and—”

Noctis didn’t remember the last time Ignis suggested he switched seats with Prompto. 

He didn’t remember the last time Ignis didn’t defend him when Gladio decided that enough was enough and he needed some sense physically knocked into him. Or the last time he saw those wounds open and raw between them— lost fathers and family and homes laid bare without thinking. 

Even in the car, sullen and not talking— of pointedly ignoring each other while Ignis drove them out and away from the last signs of civilisation— Gladio was a presence at his back. But they had been on edge for ages. Between waiting for the boat, running the errands to pick up whatever Cid or Cindy had asked of them, and avoiding the regular patrols of MTs dropping into Lucis in greater and greater numbers, something had to break. And neither Noct nor Gladio had ever been the most patient of people. 

It was just a hunt to keep them busy. Noct didn’t mention that his shoulder still hurt from where Gladio had shoved him against the wall of the hotel room as Prompto scrambled to make peace. He didn’t mention that he could still feel Gladio glowering at him and reminding him that he was ‘just a brat’ in a silent dare to complain about a bit of soreness and a bruise. 

A hunt picked up in Lestallum over drinks with one of the tipsters, the details familiar, if a little out further into the wilds than they preferred to go. It was just taking down a herd of spiracorn. They had managed the same sort of hunt a hundred times before. Usually in worse circumstances— stumbling from one errand to the next, understocked and beaten to hell. But it had languished, unpaid at the tipsters’ hands for a while now, until the bounty increased. Until the reward was worth the trip out and the few days spent at a haven.

Noct barely managed to warp away from the hooves coming down into the mud on top of him. 

“Ignis!” He wanted someone to check on Gladio, to make sure that wasn’t blood mixed into the mud. He wanted someone more competent with first aid than him to make sure his Shield— his friend— was still breathing. 

But Ignis was shielding Prompto as the younger man lined up his shots. They were too far away— distracting the beast that had nearly trampled him. Noct warped again, to a better vantage point, where he could see the mess of bodies in the mud— the last of the spiracorn herd snapping the scrub and kicking up roots as it sought out its attackers with aggression not usually seen in its kind. Noct remembered lessons from the dusty old textbooks when he was a kid, in the newer books as a teen in classes about biology and the world, the documentaries Prompto liked to watch at his place— spiracorn usually ran, they fled their predators, not attacked. They were gentle and docile, and something was wrong in Eos as that twisted around to make them dangerous. They should have fled across the open fields, not turned on the four humans pestering them, threatening them. He caught his breath as he saw it lurch forward after a well aimed shot, giant hooves striking into the mud until it lost its footing and started to topple towards where Gladio lay. 

Noct used the full force of his body weight to force the beast in another direction. His blade sunk into its throat and he was only a second behind, wincing as the force wrenched his shoulder and Ignis’ spell set the beast rocking back. Before it landed, Noct released his grip and dismissed his weapon, rolling over the burning remains of the grass not trampled into the mud. He scrambled back to his feet before the spiracorn had even stopped moving, the burning fur tainting the air around them as he rushed to Gladio’s side to check for a pulse. For breathing. 

Anything. 

The phoenix down was out of his pocket before he had registered the rise and fall of Gladio’s chest. Before he realised that the blood soaking into the ground was a mix from whatever gore was dripping from the sword nearby and from the wound in Gladio’s shoulder. 

“Shit,” Noct slipped in the mud taking Gladio’s hand, trying to recreate the force needed to crush the feather enough to release its magic. “Shit, Gladio.”

The shards of horn that had caused the visible injury had been jarred loose at the impact, the fall from knocking the man out as he landed hard. Gladio grunted when he sat up, dazed by the sudden light and brightness of the afternoon sun assaulting a pounding head. The pain in his injured shoulder and arm making it worse as he tried to still the world spinning around him. As he tried to make sense of the dark mass that was Noct trying to steady him. 

“Fuck.” 

It was all Gladio managed before Ignis was at his side, helping to manoeuvre the injured man away from the mud and towards the river— to where it was clearer, where the scrub and ground not ruined from the fight could give them a moment to assess their injuries. But splashes of water were one thing to clean off the worst of the mud, it was another to see where the shards of horn had embedded themselves in Gladio’s back and shoulder. Only a few fragmented pieces had been shaken loose in the impact. Gladio’s shield had splintered the horn too thoroughly to protect him from all of it as the spiracorn had lashed out at him. There were potions, and antidotes, whatever they could use immediately to stave off the worst of any infection, to clean the wounds. And Ignis had dragged Gladio to his feet, Noctis following and feeling useless as he tuned out the chatter Ignis was using to keep their friend awake and conscious until they could deem him safe enough to rest. 

“It would be best to get to a camp before the scavengers get here.”

The camp had been set up at the nearest haven the day before— prepared in sullen silence while Prompto struggled to ease the quiet with his chatter. Weapons recalled into Noct’s power before Ignis moved to support Gladio’s shaking, dazed steps— the only one of them tall enough to do so. They had wanted to prepare (at Ignis’ insistence) for the few days they’d spend away from the watchful eyes of the towns and separated from the rumours and gossip of the outposts. They had wanted to be prepared in case the hunt took more out of them than they expected. Noct had almost scoffed at the idea at the time. 

It was just a simple hunt. 

Ignis took care of the basics. He had ushered Gladio into the tent where the bulk of their supplies were still packed. 

“Noct,” Ignis called after a few moments of quiet, of Noct carefully cleaning off the scrapes and cuts he and Prompto had sustained. He knew there was likely more than just the surface damage he could treat with a potion, but Prompto’s tired talk was better than the worried quiet; “I need you in here.”

Prompto followed at his heel, worrying a lip even as Ignis held him back with a stern look and an outstretched hand. “How is he?”

“Bump to the head, nothing to worry about.” It was a reassurance for Prompto only— Noct had seen the actual damage even if Prompto didn’t register the worst of it. “Noct, I need you to keep the cloth in there cool; we have apparently run out of ice packs. Keep it pressed against his head, and do try to keep him talking.”

“What are you going to do?” But Noct was already moving, slipping into the dark of the tent to trade space with Ignis, the frost of his magic already coating his hands. 

“Give Prompto the once over, I think,” Ignis offered a smile; “Then I daresay we need to clean up and have a coffee.”

Noct only offered an abrupt nod in response, skirting the edge of the sleeping pad until he was next to Gladio. He could hear Ignis usher Prompto away from the tent, the soft conversation as Ignis asked after injuries and pains— the mention of falling into one of those small trees as their targets had charged them or lashed out. Noct trusted his friends to look after each other, but at least Gladio was tracking his movements. At least he could see the coherent attention on him, as he pulled one of the well-worn terry cloths from their bags and bled some of his ice into the softness. 

He expected Gladio to talk— to scold him for looking like a mess, for not watching his back during the fight. For letting this happen. 

He supposed they were both still sulking. 

The shards Ignis had pulled from Gladio’s shoulder hadn’t been discarded. They were sharp and bloodied, and Noct knelt next to them to apply the iced cloth to where he could see the bruise forming where Gladio’s head had struck ground or branch or both. Ignis would have said if Gladio had been kicked, if it was worse than it looked, if they needed to get moving from the camp to find help that was better qualified than their own extensive training. He trusted Ignis to know what he was doing when it came to their first aid out here in the middle of nowhere, where they could barely scrape by on the supplies they remembered to take with them. Gladio’s larger hand wrested the cloth from his own and Noct sat back on his heels as the man started to take care of himself. 

The fresh bandages taped and padded and secured to where the sharp shards of spiracorn horn had been taken from were already starting to get red again, and Noct pulled out an extra potion to stop from feeling useless. Rolling it between his hands as he struggled for something to do, some way to fill the silence between them. 

“You look terrible.”

It was gruff and quiet, and Noct couldn’t bring himself to smile at the easy, familiar response; “You should see the other guy.”

He remembered that same exchange from a couple of years ago, when Noct had gone out on a whim into the city depths. He remembered the same quip in a hospital emergency room, where he had paced and fretted and shied back under the stern eyes of Clarus while they waited for news. While nurses hurried through the halls and Noct wrung his hands in a nervous tick. He remembered the sigh from Clarus as they waited, as they watched the fuss and the door where Gladio had disappeared. As they were ignored in favour of the chaos bubbling up around them in the emergency care.

He remembered the large hand on his back. The solemn look, the concern he wasn’t used to seeing in Clarus’ stern features. The worry in those kind eyes he had known since he could remember. “He was doing his job, your highness. Are you okay?”

As if that was the only concern between them. As if his little nod didn’t betray the stunned shock that had left him speechless since Gladio had shoved him aside at the first flash of metal. The night passed by in a flash of sobering thought as he realised just how bad it could be, and just what had happened. He wanted to stammer out an apology to his father’s oldest friend, to his friend’s father. He wanted to reassure and step up like he should, to acknowledge that he was the outsider in all this, but the weight of the responsibility was on his shoulders as he hadn’t done anything to get himself out of the situation while Gladio fetched their drinks. He wanted to do more than just stare at his hands in cold sobriety and nod as Clarus settled a little more into the hard waiting room chairs next to him. 

There were long hours waiting, where he existed on the edge of everyone’s vision. No one in the hospital where Gladio had been taken wanted to be the one to tell the Crown Prince to go home. No one wanted to be the one to break with propriety when Noct was just waiting for news, accepting warm drinks from a worried father waiting with him, and letting a nervous sister curl against him. No one wanted to tell the Crown Prince of Lucis that he wasn’t family. 

Noct remembered being let in to see Gladio once the recovery room was cleared and he was moved to a proper bed— a quiet room away from the prying eyes of other patients. Where the insistence of royal association had afforded him a little more privacy than most. There were stark white sheets and starker bandages, the sickly yellow of antiseptic staining everything the attending nurses had touched as they assessed the handiwork of their predecessors. The heavy, sterile air underscoring the severity of the situation. The magnitude of Noct’s mistake. 

He had always hated hospitals. 

Iris had sniffled when Gladio opened his good eye. She had hopped from foot to foot and swiped at the drying tears in her eyes so her big brother wouldn’t worry as she offered a wet smile in greeting. Clarus had stood and offered his approval, his concern unspoken as the praise for his son’s strength and duty and kindness fell easier than worry. Noct remembered the stiff chairs in the hallways outside of the room, until he was allowed to go in. 

“Don’t,” Gladio growled at him now, chilled terry cloth bunched in his hand and shoved back against Noct’s chest to take. There was no yellow dabbing of antiseptic at the edges of the bandages this time; they hadn’t been able to afford it unless they sacrificed their stock of phoenix down or potions. “Stop looking like this is your fault.” 

“It’s entirely your fault,” Noct muttered in response, hands smoothing out the cloth to chill it again, manifesting chunks of ice to fold into the material before he handed it back. “You didn’t cover your own ass.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not.”

“Then just don’t.”

He wanted to bite back, to glare at Gladio, to avoid looking at the red in the bandages. But the shards of the spiracorn horn kept drawing him back, kept reminding him that if he didn’t let his eyes rest on his friend, he was just going to focus on the worst of it. He didn’t want to think about how Gladio was watching him instead, how his friend was too clever for his own good— almost as observant as Ignis, almost as mouthy as Prompto. He didn’t want to acknowledge the look and the worry or the—

“How’s your arm?” Gladio asked, as Noct busied himself with a bag, digging through potions until he could find something stronger to try. 

“I’m fine.”

“Noct.”

“I’m fine.” It was forced out through clenched teeth, quiet and insistent as he twisted off the cap of the hi-potion and took back the ice and cloth from where Gladio had been pressing the cold against the forming bruise. The cloth and ice soaked up the curative before he passed it back. The bruising would be worse in the morning, but at least not as dark as one of Gladio’s tattoos now. “Shut up.”

“Fine, fine.”

In the morning, there would be bruising and fussing, and Ignis would take over as the responsible one. In the morning, they would all be stiff and sore, and wishing for softer beds and the comforts of a makeshift home that had complementary ice in a little bucket and the promise of a simple breakfast while they pretend the hum of a massive powerplant hadn’t kept them up all night. And Noct would feel every sore muscle and forming bruise as acutely as the guilt once he saw the bruising that had taken the night to form on Gladio— so dark on his chest and side and peeking from beneath the edge of the bandages that it could be a terrible mistake on his tattoo. Some dark smudge that would leave the man grumping and shoving off help for days. 

As the new sun revealed the extent of their injuries— the scrapes, the cuts, the bruises— they would opt to stay at the campsite for a few days longer before making the trip back to town. Before claiming the hard earned reward and a few days rest. Before any of them felt up to another few hours cramped together in the car, stiff and sore, and still on edge from the cold quiet that would shroud the backseat. 

But the camp would still bustle, and Ignis would still take a moment to look them all over before letting himself be forced into one of the canvas chairs to be tended to. There would still be coffee at dawn, and a light breakfast, and the idle chatter of exhausted hunters already looking towards their bed again. Noctis would eye up the river for any acceptable fishing spots, and Prompto would check on the Regalia with him, a few steps behind and with the same uneven gait as he tried not to strain a sore muscle any more than it was. They would watch, in a heap at the edge of the campsite’s plateau, as a herd of new spiracorn moved into the territory they had just cleared, towering above the broken brush as they eked out a meal around the scavenger and daemon ravaged bodies of the other herd. 

Throughout the day, Noctis checked on Gladio. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” 

“Not in the least,” Noct had peeled away the old bandages, carefully and quietly, to apply a new mix of potion and medicine to the wound. He would check on the stitches carefully laid in by Ignis, and try to spot the signs of infection through the bruising. “But you’re not dead yet.”

At the snort in reply, Noct smiled. They had sat through the same lessons and tests— carefully studied the same field guides and emergency first aid techniques. Noct had learnt, later than Ignis or Gladio, how to identify infection, replace soiled bandages, to tell if a wound was getting better or worse. Not because anyone thought that he would need the knowledge or survival outside of the Wall, but because he had insisted when he was younger and their sparing matches got rougher. 

Noct just wished he didn’t need to be patient to know if everything was on the right path. He didn’t want to watch the bruising fade from the dark black and purples and blues it was now to a sickly yellow. He didn’t want to see the fresh scars for years afterwards, reminded of the relief from years ago when he was told that Gladio wouldn’t lose his eye because of him. 

He didn’t want Gladio looking him over as he secured the last of the fresh bandage— bulky and inelegant compared to Ignis’ work from the day before, but functioning and clean. He didn’t want to flinch away from the larger, familiar hand touching his bruised shoulder, the tender marks from before the silent car ride out to the middle of nowhere safely hidden by his t-shirt. “Let me check.”

“Iggy’s already poked and prodded as much as I can take, Gladio.”

Ignis would suggest they take another day, as they watched the daemons prowl the hills over dinner. Prompto would actively ignore the red glare of distant Nif lights as he settled closer to the fire, still reaching for the meagre supply of painkillers scrounged from the bottom of a bag. And Noct would sit with him, not calling Ignis out on his slow movements and look of relief as he settled with a drink and his notebook. He would rest against Prompto, shoulder-to-shoulder as they scrolled through the day’s pictures. He would avoid Gladio until he was asked to check that the bandages were still in place, because he was the one yawning and dozing in the protected warmth of the isolated haven. 

Later, the bruises would fade, but they would still be stiff. The hard ground beneath the tent no real substitute for a real bed. 

“We should have stuck closer to Lestallum,” Gladio would grumble one afternoon as Noct checked on the bandages. As he tightened them up and made sure the worst was passed. He would stop, hands still ghosting over the warm skin and muscle he was trying to take care of as Gladio barely glanced at him work, barely acknowledged that he was sitting there; “You were right about that.”

The long silence stretched between them as Noct finished his task, as he processed the admission. For a moment, the only response Gladio would get was the press of an open potion— cap twisted off, curative magic curling up like fumes from the container— into his hand. “You were right that we needed the hunt.”

“Feel like there’s something else there.”

“But you were an idiot for getting hurt.”

“There it is.” Gladio smiled at the wry look he received. He’d grin at the way Noct pouted and took back the half finished potion when it was offered, downed with a wince at the raw taste of it and the curl of magic waking him up more than he wanted to be. He leaned heavily on Noct as Ignis called them out for food, laughing at the whine from his prince and Prompto’s jokes that Noct was the right size for a crutch.

Prompto settled between them for dinner, scrolling through the latest pictures taken while Ignis prepared an early dinner. There were plans to stay longer, to leave earlier, to let Ignis decide since he was the master planner. In the end, they stayed at the haven an extra couple of days, watching the red Nif lights searching the long stretches of road in the night. None of them were interested in picking fights until they were in better shape, and it was just easier to let the searches move on. 

Noct had Gladio sit at the edge of the haven the next night, keeping watch of the patrols getting dropped off and picked up in regular routines. Gladio watched the daemons prowling the shadows more than the Nifs. 

“Never seem to target them…”

“What?”

“The daemons,” Gladio used his good hand to indicate where the patrol and the imps clawing through the underbrush seemed to avoid each other; “and the Nifs. They never seem to run into one another.”

Noct watched the distant patrol— the stark white and shine of chrome gleaming under the moonlight, red lights of the carrier ships circling around in a lazy arc— as they moved along the roads and chocobo paths. He watched as they stuttered to a halt and changed their route as an imp scurried away. As the banner flying above them seemed to direct the rest of the patrol, rather than the mechanical feet on the ground. “They must have sensors, right?”

“I guess. It’s just weird.” Gladio didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to risk worrying over something that probably meant nothing. There were robots moving through the night, blind to whatever magic sheltered them at the haven, surrounded by the strange, glimmering glyphs of ancient power. He didn’t want to draw them closer by the bad luck of fixating on them now. He turned when he felt heat cut through the cool night air on his back. “What are you doing back there?”

“Helping,” and Noct is rubbing his hands together, the old bandages discarded as he seems to radiate heat. 

“In what world is burning me helping?”

“I’m not going to burn you.”

“Like hell you aren’t.”

“Gladio,” warm hands are pressed to sore muscle, careful to avoid where the stitches were so carefully laid, where the redness was still so stark; “trust me.”

But Gladio worried his lip, even as the heat eased through him— and he realises that it’s not the fire that Noct could gather and call forth so easily. It wasn’t the elements that seemed to be woven directly into the prince; the power passed through flesh and blood and the line of Lucis that got them into far too much trouble already. It was softer, warmer, and reminded Gladio of the potions they picked up and let Noct tinker with when they had a moment. It was the curative spells that seemed so finite and delicate. But it eased through Gladio until his shoulder itched— the telltale strangeness of healing too quickly caused him to twist to grab Noct’s wrist. 

“Enough.”

“Let me do this, Gladio.” There wasn’t much left to do— the bruising already fading under the combination of magic and medicine, the stitches still red and angry, but no longer seeping or threatening infection out this far from real help. But Noct had waited until now to even attempt to tap into the magic that he had inherited— the magic that seemed to grow stronger, but never fully replenish, that was still untrained and wild and working on a whim to his instinct for it. “Since it’s my fault you got hurt.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“If I was paying attention, I could have watched your back.”

“And I should have been more careful.”

“Just shut up and accept the apology, you ass.”

“Is that what this is?” The smile in Gladio’s voice was not hidden. He refused to bite it back, even as he heard the prince behind him offer his own indignant huff. “Because it’s kind of shit, your highness.”

“Jerk.”

“Is that the best you got?” 

“I’ll kick your ass when you can lift a sword again.”

“You can try.”

Gladio decided that it was nice to hear Noct laugh through the worry that had hovered above them. That had smothered them with the resentment and silence of their argument. It was nice to feel that warmth and to pull the prince into place against his uninjured side— to watch the fading lights as the Nifs moved on again, none the wiser for the ancient magics that protected the havens. In another day or two, they would be back on the road— back to the safety of Lestallum and the different kind of chaos that came with a larger town and more people to lose themselves in. 

But for now, watching as the distant red lights faded in the night, Gladio was okay. Noct still pressed against his good side, cold despite the warmth of the campfire at their backs, and Gladio let himself relax. A hand moved to Noct’s hair and Gladio let himself feel the dull thrum where Noct’s magic spread beneath his skin. “We good, your highness?”

“We’re good.”


End file.
